Code Name: Pedestrian
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Daniel accidentally summons a demon, Sam hits a certain ensouled vampire with her car, and Willow finds herself questioning her orientation. Toss in a poisoned Buffy, a few aliens, and a possessed Andrew. The world is doomed.
1. Chapter 1: Deer in Headlights

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Stargate SG-1_ or _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_..**

_**Code Name: Pedestrian**_

**Chapter 1: Deer in Headlights**

_Ring._

Samantha Carter rolled over, glaring at the shadowed silhouette of her telephone on the bedside table. She wiped her eyes and reached out to turn on her lamp. She waited a split second. "It was just a dream," she muttered, slamming her face back into the pillow.

_Ring._

"Maybe not," she reasoned. With a groan, she picked up the receiver. "Carter."

"Ehh. . .Hi, Sam. It's Daniel. Sorry for calling so late--make that early."

Sam raised a brow, pushing herself up on her elbows. "Is something wrong? What time is it?" She glanced over at her alarm clock. It read three-fifteen. She frowned, realizing that she had been asleep for less than an hour.

"Nothing's wrong, _per se_." Daniel's end was silent a moment. "Actually, something may be seriously wrong. I was doing some work—I've gotten behind on my more terrestrial projects, so I began translating a new volume that one of my old colleagues sent me a few months ago. It's a fascinating read but. . ."

"But?" Sam asked. "Daniel, where are you? Did they open the base already? Janet said they wouldn't be cleared for another twenty-four hours."

Sam, herself, had planned on using her layover time to finish a few of her own projects that had been collecting dust in her laboratory, and Daniel had made similar arrangements. However, after going out for a steak with their two teammates, they'd received a message from the SGC. Apparently, SG-3 had managed to bring back mold spores on their uniforms which caused a unique case of very literal sleeping sickness. More than half of the base was under quarantine, including Dr. Jackson and Major Carter's workstations and private quarters. Jack had only smirked at the information, offering them the chance to join him and Teal'c on their fishing trip. Daniel and Sam had backed down less than gracefully.

"No, I'm at home," Daniel groaned. "And apparently the quarantine station has left the phone off the hook. I've tried to call them for the past ten minutes, but all I've gotten was a busy signal."

"So, you called me on the rebound?" Sam asked, smiling.

Daniel took a moment to process the statement before answering. "Well, I suppose you could look at it that way. I just thought that this would probably be Janet's area. On the other hand, an astrophysicist could help me more."

"What is it?"

"I'm stuck."

Sam sat up, switching the receiver to her other ear. "Stuck where? I thought you were at your house?"

"In my chair. I was reading one of my translations and . . .I'm stuck. It's hard to explain."

Sam's eyes widened. "Do you need me to call an ambulance? Can you move your feet?"

"I can wiggle my toes, if that's what you're asking. And I still have feeling in my legs. I don't think this has anything to do with my health, unless my predicament is entirely a figment of my imagination. In which case, I may be having another mental breakdown. Could you swing by?"

"Give me fifteen. Just stay put."

"Very funny."

Sam sat down the phone and was halfway to the closet before she realized that she was still in the same clothes she had worn to the restaurant. "Really tired," she muttered, reaching out to slip on her shoes. She snatched her jacket and keys, walking out the door toward her silver Mustang.

Minutes later she was heading toward Danny's place. The streets were reasonably empty other than the occasional diesel or late night worker. She reached out automatically, expecting a cup of coffee to be awaiting her (Daniel's habitual mug was rubbing off on her). She swore to herself, noticing that the cup holder was empty. In the second that she looked down, she felt her stomach clench, her gut instinct screaming out for her to pay attention. Her blue eyes widened, all fatigue gone as she looked back up.

A man, one single solitary being clothed in black and with skin paler than the moon, was standing in the middle of the street, his body posed as if he had been running before coming to a sudden halt. His mouth hung agape as he straightened, staring dumbfounded at the oncoming headlights.

Petal hit the floor, but it was already too late. Sam forgot to breath. Her brakes squealed wildly. The world moved in slow motion. The man in front of her took on a cartoon-like expression of self-pity as his body made contact with the front of the Mustang, rolling over her hood and into the broad windshield.

The glass broke but held; however, the unfortunate pedestrian's blond head had been the center of impact. Sam saw the blood streaming onto the glass from his temple and knew that he was already gone.

A small cry escaped her lips. The body rolled back off onto the pavement as the car finally came to a complete stop. Paler than any specter, Sam opened her car door and stepped out, eyes on the mangled form lying on the street.

"Oh God," she whispered. "I killed him."

The body twitched suddenly, a hand scratching at the black top. "I wish," the man groaned.

* * *

Dr. Daniel Jackson—archeologist, anthropologist, linguist, and freelance inter-galactic diplomat—was having a bad day. It was not an 'extremely' bad day as there was not a new source of impending doom currently heading toward Earth, but it was, nevertheless, no where near a good day.

"This is all Jack's fault," he said, attempting to wiggle out of his chair once again. It did no good. Not only did his body refuse to obey him, but his attempts to tip over his chair hadn't helped him in the slightest. In fact, the only part of him that he could still move freely was his arms.

"If Jack hadn't been in the mood for _cow,_ I would still be at the base, possibly knocked out in the infirmary, but, apparently, I'm not that lucky." He sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes in frustration. "I just hope Sam gets here fast."

Daniel lazily picked up the half-finished translation in front of him, one of the few things besides his phone that he could still reach. Beneath the paper was the book of original text. He had already come to the conclusion that he was in his present situation because he had read the page aloud in its natural tongue. Perhaps the word '_incantation' _in the line above should have served as a warning.

Putting aside his frustration, he picked up his pen, attempting to translate the word that had been giving him so much trouble in the first place and that had inevitably led to him speaking it aloud. With a groan, he wrecked his brain again, trying to figure out where he had seen the dialect before.

"Summoning of . . . No, that's definitely not it," he muttered. "By. Summoned by. . . By what? Wait a second." He cocked his head suddenly, clicking his tongue. "That's it. That's it! It's not a word; it stands for a phrase. Alright, so the first part could stand for willful or willing—most likely willing considering the context. And the last bit refers to a yearly festival."

He reached out for one of his reference texts, quickly flipping through the pages. "Here it is." His bright blue eyes skimmed the passage. "Refers to a sacrificial festival held to summon the gods or the 'god keeper'. Well, that sounds familiar. So, the text translates to 'summoned by the willing sacrifice.'" He frowned. "Oh, boy."


	2. Chapter 2: Early Morning Joggers

**Disclaimer: I don't own BtVS, Ats, or SG-1.**

**A/N: The SG-1 setting is about mid season five--that's not terribly important though. Just keep in mind that Daniel hasn't died yet. And it's post season 7 for Buffy.  
**

_**Code Name: Pedestrian**_

**Chapter 2: Early Morning Joggers**

"Well, you were all innocent, and you had a mother complex. Then, you were made all bitter by the world, right?" Andrew urged. Spike only rolled his eyes. "And then, when the time was right, _BAM_, the Dark Side arrived, and you went all evil and stuff. You killed and maimed. Eventually though, love—though not the fatherly kind, as the case was—brought you back to the side of light, only long enough for you to die a tragic death saving the galaxy and becoming absorbed back into the Force." Silence. "Don't you see the similarities?"

The ensouled vampire clenched his fist, restraining himself. "I'm not bloody Darth Vader," he growled, quickening his pace until Andrew was practically running to keep up with him.

"I know that, silly." Andrew gave a half-smile, shaking his head as if the idea was preposterous. "I'm simply stating that, if Luke was to represent, say, your soul. . .Well, you thought you'd lost it for good, and then you got it back—but you were like 'oh the pain' and wanted to rip it out, and then you finally succumbed to the goodness and joined it to redeem your wicked. . ."

Spike raised a hand to cut him off.

"Is that the 'shut up' hand or the 'stop, I smell a demon' sort of hand," Andrew whispered, coming to a halt less than an inch away from the vampire's back.

His eyes darted around the park they had just entered. Amongst the perfect green carpet (ornamented with the standard benches covered in bird droppings), stood a playground, quaint and tempting to any individual under seven. Andrew smiled at it, silently tapping the tips of his fingers together.

"Takes me back to old times," Spike muttered. He lifted his chin, gesturing in the direction of the slide. "This is the place."

"The demon's under the playground?" Andrew asked. "Are you sure Willow got the spell right?"

"The hellmouth was under a school," Spike scoffed.

Andrew nodded sagely, "Point taken. I call the springy bucking dinosaur!"

Spike smirked as the geek ran forward, jumping onto the purple, plastic creature, his knees almost at his shoulders as he rode the toddler toy. The Barney look-alike swung back and forth, its nose and tail bouncing off of the pee-gravel at the man's weight.

The vampire lit-up a cigarette, casually pushing back his black duster and taking a seat on a nearby swing. He resisted the urge to push off the ground, remembering how Drusilla had always enjoyed hunting in the park and having her lover push her swing as she fed on a child.

"I hope Red finds that book soon," he said, his voice faint. Willow hadn't had nearly enough time to track down the spell, but Spike was already anxiously awaiting her return, and not because of his annoyance with Andrew.

"You're worried about Buffy," Andrew stated. He put down his feet, sliding to a stop. "It's not your fault, Spike. And it's not Angel or Illyria's either. Buffy did what she thought she had to do."

"It was stupid." Spike dropped his cigarette to the ground, putting a boot to it.

"She'll be ok. The Slayer's been through worse, right? Giles is taking care of her. Buffy's strong. She'll fight back, especially now that you guys are back in her life."

"You mean now that Angel is back in her life, no longer the traitor she'd thought him to be," Spike said, shaking his head.

"I was talking about you, actually." Andrew bit his lip, his dramatic side taking over, this time for the good of someone other than himself. "She did what she did thinking of saving the innocents in LA. And, yeah, her passion sort of flared up when she heard that Angel was one of the good guys now. But you didn't see her eyes when I finally told her that you were there, too. I'd kept your secret until then. Giles didn't want me to speak up, but he didn't stop me because she'd already made up her mind. He let me tell her because he knew that it would give her the strength to live."

"The bit alone would give her that." Spike stared off into the night.

He had chosen to travel to Colorado with Willow and Andrew straight after the Battle of Los Angeles, as Andy had dubbed it, and Angel and Illyria had went on to Rome to see if they could be any help to Buffy. But they all knew that the only thing that that could help her now was apparently in little Colorado Springs.

"And it still doesn't stomp the fact that she's in a bloody coma," he replied.

"But it's a magically-induced coma," Andrew added.

"Somehow, that doesn't help matters." The vampire stood, walking behind the line of clone swings.

"Does too," Andrew snapped, looking affronted. "If its magic related, Willow can fix it. She's the most powerful witch, like, ever. She'll find the book and raise the demon and. . ."

"And the rest of it's slice, dice, and brew the broth," Spike concluded. "It's never that easy, boy, especially when you're fixing the Immortal's mistakes."

Andrew shrugged. He opened his mouth to reply but stopped, cocking his head and staring at the ground in front of his feet. Spike followed his gaze. The soft gravel seemed to be disappearing, sifting into the soil a few at a time through what appeared to be a hole that was steadily growing.

Then something rather typical happened. A claw shot out of the earth, grabbing hold of Andrew's ankle. And, in the name of all things expected, a body followed the appendage.

* * *

"I really hope I'm at the right house," Willow muttered.

The witch had spent the last two days in Colorado Springs searching through her location spells for something that would give her a more specific way to find the book. As luck would have it, she'd found the correct incantation at three in the morning. All that was left was for her to wake up the current owner of the book, convince them to let her borrow it, and take it back to the park where Spike and Andrew were waiting. Easy enough.

"Not," she sighed. She tapped on the front door lightly.

"Sam?" came a call from inside.

Apparently, she hadn't woken anyone.

"No," she called through the door. "My name's Willow. I need to speak to you, Mr. . ." She turned, squinting back at the name on the mail box. "Mr. Jackson."

There was a moment of silence before a reply came. "Who?"

"You don't know me," Willow said, "but I need to speak to you about something that you've acquired, a book to be specific. It will only take a moment." Lie. "This would be easier to explain face-to-face, actually."

"A book? At three in the morning?" Jackson replied. "Wait . . . What kind of book?"

Willow frowned. "It's hard to explain. If you'd just come to the door. . ."

"I can't. Come back in the morning."

"It is morning," Willow snapped. "This is really important!"

"Honestly, I can't come to the door right now. It'll have to wait."

The witch had had enough. Her best friend's life was fading with every hour; she had no more time to waste. She put a hand on the door handle, preparing to mutter an incantation when the knob turned. She smiled, opening the front door.

She was half expecting to find a large man with a shot gun waiting for her, but instead she saw no one. Willow took a step inside, peeking into the first room. A man was sitting at a chair in front of a desk covered in books and papers. He was wearing an aggravated expression on his face. He pursed his lips, cocking his head in mock invitation and faintly staring down at his boxers and black t-shirt.

"Come on in," he murmured, resting his chin on one hand.

Willow felt her face blush slightly. "Normally, I'm not big on the intruding," she tried to explain. Her eyes moved past him and found the desk. "Hey! That's what I'm looking for." She crossed the room in three strides, reaching out for the spell book.

The man caught her wrist. "Hold it," he snapped. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house? And who do you work for?"

Willow raised a brow. "Willow Rosenberg. Getting that book. Freelancer."

"I don't think so," he said. "I need this book."

The witch pulled away from him, a look of confusion on her face when he released her, putting up his palms in surrender. The man frowned, weary frustration etched under his eyes.

Then she saw his notes. "Oh, no. . ."

"Listen, I can't give you this book because. . ."

"You read it aloud?" Willow asked. "Oh, boy, you're in trouble."

"Really? Didn't notice." Jackson shook his body frantically, illustration the fact that he was fully aware of his current situation. A moment of quiet passed between the two of them. Finally, he extended a hand. "Dr. Daniel Jackson."

Willow shook it awkwardly. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Jackson. It seems you may be in a bit of a bind, literally."

"I'm stuck to the chair," he explained. "Is that what you're referring to by any chance?"

The red head gave him a sympathetic nod. "That was supposed to be my job. . ."

"So, this book is yours?"

"Not exactly, but I was planning on using it," Willow stated. "You really shouldn't meddle into the magicks without proper instruction. I mean, rule one is never read out loud until after translation—it's sort of a basic. Let me guess, amateur sorcerer? You bought a few manuals on the internet and began to dabble."

It was Daniel's turn to raise a brow. "What?"

Willow blinked, abashed. "You're not. . . Oh, just a normal joe, reading an ancient book on spell cast." He stared at her, jaw slack. She bit her lip. "Not a wizard or enchanter or. . . That's just great." She sighed. "Are you sure, because you really give off a magic vibe and your aura's just jumpy at the thought. . ."

Daniel shook his head. "Magic?"

"Yup."

Willow twiddled her thumbs. "We can talk about this later. How about I attempt to free you in the mean time?" A frowned appeared on her face. "Oh, crap."

"What is it?" Daniel asked slowly.

"We better hurry."

Dr. Jackson cocked his head. "And why is that?"

"I sort of disregarded the whole, there's a demon on its way to consume you part," Willow explained.

"Demon?" Daniel glared at her. Then his face lightened, a nearly visible light bulb switching on above his head. "Sacrifice," he said.

Willow nodded.

"Crap."

* * *

Spike see demon. Demon attack Andrew. Spike distract demon. See Spike run.

The vampire raced out of the park and down the sidewalk. Typically, it was not a good idea to lead any sort of flesh-eating creature into a public area, so he ignored the glare of store lights, running in the opposite direction. Spike knew the demon was still hot on his tail, partly because he could still smell the monster's rank breath.

He dashed across an empty road, scaling a chain-length fence and gracefully landing in a roll. The vampire ran through a patch of forestry. He heard the demon grunt as the vampire pulled back a branch and let it smack the creature in the face. Spike let out a snort of laughter, coming to a stop. He turned, throwing a punch at the creature's head and hitting the demon between the horns. Blackish-blue goop stained the vampire's knuckles, but he had done nothing to injure his opponent. The demon retaliated, glaring down several feet at the vampire and grabbing Spike around the neck. The vampire flew through the air into a tree.

Spike's body cracked the slender trunk and its guardian branches on impact. The vampire rolled away, coughing up pine needles. When he looked up, the demon was gone.

"Not that bloody easy," he growled. He lifted his nose, taking in a whiff. He caught its scent and was after it in a human heart beat.

He concentrated on every shadow, looking for the beast. Spike reached the side of a ravine and climbed the bank, quickly reaching the top. It took him a full second to realize that he was standing in the middle of a highway. It took him another to realize that he was staring into a car's headlights. However, he was fully aware of the pain upon impact.

He rolled off of the vehicle, grasping at the pavement which had so intimately greeted him. He heard a car door open.

"Oh, God," said a feminine voice. "I killed him."

Spike let out an indignant growl. "I wish."

He attempted to push himself up onto his knees and slid back down, painfully hitting his broken ribs. Blood ran down into his face, and he raised a hand to keep it from dripping into his eyes. Gentle fingers squeezed his shoulder.

"Don't move," the owner commanded. "I'll call an ambulance. Just try to stay still. It's going to be alright."

Directly disobeying, Spike turned himself onto his side, reaching out to grab her foot. "No. No ambulance. Car," he hissed, still trying to shake off the whole 'fractured-skull' feeling that he was getting so used to these days.

"Yes, I hit you with my car." The woman bent down, reaching out to support his neck as he spoke. "Don't move," she ordered.

Spike stared up at her, taking in her heart-shaped face and short blond hair. He placed a hand on her knee for support. "Help me up, love."

The woman's glittering blue eyes widened in shock. Her fingers shifted, searching the skin under Spike's jaw. The vampire realized that she must have noticed his unusually low temperature and lack of a pulse by now.

She released him, quickly stepping out of his grasp. "What are you?" she whispered.

Her answer was an animalistic growl. But it didn't come from Spike.


	3. Chapter 3:Improper Use of an Egg Flipper

**Disclaimer: I don't own BtVS, Ats, or SG-1.**

_**Code Name: Pedestrian**_

**Chapter 3: Improper Use of an Egg-Flipper **

Sam was used to seeing strange things. A few years spent chit-chatting with aliens and brushing off extraterrestrial flirts could do that to a girl. But, usually, she saw such odd sights on other planets, not standing next to her Mustang, dripping goop onto the black-top.

The creature dove toward her, but Sam dodged the blow that its claws inevitably would have dealt, reaching for a side-arm that she _wasn't_ wearing. (She resisted the urge to slap herself on the forehead at her second major mistake of the evening—her first being the talking English pedestrian who didn't have a pulse.) Before she could move, she saw a flash of black jump over her legs and tackle the monster. Apparently, the lack of a heartbeat wasn't keeping said car accident victim from throwing a few punches.

"Watch out!" Sam shouted, as the blond Brit took a crackling blow to his collar bone. He rolled away, looking up at the monster. . . But there was something wrong with him, some deformity that appeared out of nowhere and sent chills down her back. His face was distorted, brow a layer of primitive folds of skin, eyes those of a predator, and mouth bearing a set of long canines.

"Fangs?"

Pushing the remaining questions to the back of her mind, Sam pulled herself up, ducking away from the creature that was now focusing its energies on her. She delivered it a back kick, leaving it staggering away, and grabbed hold of the driver's side door, crashing it into the monster's backside and shattering the window in the process. Sam slid into her car, grabbing her cell—it was time to phone for backup.

* * *

A "witch". There was an attractive woman claiming to be a Wiccan witch presently digging through his kitchen. Also a "demon" was on its way to devour him, or so said witch and cursed text claimed. And, apparently, she didn't like the way he'd preferred to "set-up" his kitchen because there were no visible items she could use in her "magical barrier".

Daniel found himself using several mental air quotes and Jack-style means of expressing his frustration including sarcasm, eye-rolling, and finger drumming.

A particularly loud crash sounded from another room, breaking Dr. Jackson from his thoughts. He glanced up, seeing the red-head peaking shyly back into his room. "Nothing broke," she assured him. She disappeared again and reemerged with a small grin on her face. "You should think about buying some groceries. And maybe setting up a decent spice rack—I couldn't find anything to use in setting up a proper barrier other than powdered coffee creamer, which probably wouldn't do the job very well. . ."

"Is that an egg-flipper?" Daniel interrupted, seeing the long metal instrument in her hand.

"Actually, I think it's for the grill—you know, one of those super-sized ones that you can use on your burgers," Willow babbled, waving the cooking utensil.

"And what do you plan on doing with it?"

"Freeing you."

Daniel's eyes widened, his mouth forming a little, open pout. "How?" he asked slowly. "Where do you plan on putting that?"

Willow cocked her head, absorbing what he'd just asked. "Oh, nothing like that! I don't plan on prying you off the chair by sticking this. . . Anyhow, it's to conduct. It's a bit like a conduit for channeling magic."

The archaeologist released a breath. "Conduct . . . Magic? Because it's steel?"

"In a way, but not because it's steel exactly. I'll be concentrating on that element, though. I picked the flipper because it's durable and flat," the witch answered. "I needed something thin enough to slip under a leg of your chair. See, the magic holding you in place can't be very strong, because it's not even enough to restrict your movement completely—you can still use your torso freely, so long as you don't stand up. Theoretically, I can give it a little jolt and off-set it long enough to push you out of the way. The binding should dissipate afterward."

"Jolt?"

"_Little_ jolt."

"OK." Daniel frowned. He was liking the idea of a so-called magic jolt less and less. "You've done this before?"

Willow shook her head. "Not really. But it should work. In theory. Didn't I say that?" The sat down on the floor beside his chair, studying the legs carefully.

"And if it works, then what?" Daniel asked.

"Then we run away from the demon."

"Oh. . . Mind if I make a phone call?"

The witch shrugged. "Your phone."

* * *

Backup came in the form of a busy signal. The base was apparently still in chaos, and the lines were probably being used by the officials. Sam groaned, canceling the call. Before she could shift into drive, however, her phone rang. She glared at it, pressing the talk button.

"Daniel, I'm on my way," she answered quickly.

"Good. Because my problems are beginning to pile up," Daniel said.

"I ran into some trouble," Sam explained. "Hold on."

She held the phone against her chest and leaned over, staring out the broken driver's side window. The creature was gone. Sam let out a shaky sigh of relief, leaning over and pulling her side arm out of the glove compartment (she'd taken to keeping her weapon with her even when she wasn't on the base—her lifestyle had gotten too dangerous for her to go without it).

She heard a thump and the grating sound of someone grabbing hold of the passenger's side door. The blond man that she'd hit was standing outside of it, waving.

"Would you unlock the door already?" he asked, a frustrated expression on his bleeding face. "Come on! I need your car."

"Move and I shoot!" Sam shouted. Hearing Daniel's cries, she lifted the phone back to her ear, gun pointed toward the dead man. The irony of that thought stunned her. "Daniel?" she asked.

"Sam? Sam, are you alright? I heard shouting. Are you. . ."

"I'm alright," she answered. "You won't believe what I just hit with my car."

"Sam, you need to get here. There's a witch here and . . . Something happened to your car?"

"Daniel, did you say witch?" Sam raised a brow, still staring at the angry pedestrian outside her Mustang. He wasn't human—that much she was aware of—but something stopped her from driving away. Curiosity? Or perhaps she simply felt bad for smashing him into her windshield.

"Yes." Daniel was quiet a moment. "The important thing is that the text that may have caused my current situation with the chair would have also awoken what it calls a "demon"—a creature that's currently on its way to devour me. Now, I'm not sure about the demon part, but I'm fairly certain that some sort of hostile might be on its way."

"Demon?"

Sam's eyes widened. She knew that there was no such thing. But she also knew in her heart of hearts that if a demon were to exist it would probably look something like the creature she'd just fought. Coincidence? As a scientist, she wanted to answer yes, as a soldier, her gut said no. Demon, alien, or human creation, it was definitely a killer and most likely the _thing_ headed toward Daniel.

"Listen, love. I'm takin' this car, whether you want me to or not. Shoot me if you like, but I'm catching that bloody demon," the man hissed. He leaned back and threw a fist through the glass.

Sam didn't scream. In one smooth movement, she took off the safety and squeezed the trigger.


	4. Chapter 4:First Dates Are Always Awkward

**Disclaimer: I don't own BtVS, Ats, or SG-1.**

_**Code Name: Pedestrian **_

**Chapter 4: First Dates are Always Awkward**

"Well, I hope you're happy, love," Spike spat, twisting about in the passenger's side seat to keep from getting blood on the interior. He looked down at his jacket, poking a finger through the hole in the shoulder seam. "You know, I just had this replaced in Italy a few months ago."

"Bill me," the woman hissed, barely able to keep her eyes on the road without sparing the dead man a glance.

Spike, using his excellent deduction skills, noticed that she was just a wee bit angry. "I don't know why you're upset. _I'm_ the one who was hit by _your_ car and took a bloody bullet—you're not pissed because I tossed that pistol out the window?" The vampire chuckled at the deep groan at the back of her throat. "That's rich. It's not often that I find a _normal_ woman who gets 'piffed when I trash their favorite weapon—well, at least I haven't seen any pretty ones who have a problem with it."

Spike dug into his pockets, searching for a cig that might have escaped without getting crushed. "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't say." She stared in front of her, taking the crooked road dangerously fast.

The vampire saw the worry on her face and frowned. "You say you know where this demon's headed? Toward your friend's place, right? Did your mate mention a young lady by any chance?"

"A witch?" she muttered, raising a brow at the inquiry.

"That would be the girl." The vampire with a soul nodded. "Willow will protect him from the demon if we're a bit late—she knows what she's doing. Don't worry."

A silence fell over the car.

"Sam."

Spike raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

The woman pursed her lips, giving him a look from the side of her eyes. "My name. I'm Sam."

"Do you have a last name, Sam?"

She hesitated, but, seemly realizing the insanity of her situation, she answered. "Sam Carter."

"A pleasure to meet you, Samantha," Spike grinned. "I'll expect you're number by sunrise, love."

Sam rolled her eyes. "And you're a vampire, aren't you? Or at least the equivalent to the creature of folklore commonly referred to as a vampire. . . Of course, you're not a real. . ."

"Am actually—and official names are for the politically correct. Vampire will do fine, love. But don't worry; I won't be pickin' you off for a good bite." Spike smirked at her frown. "My name's Spike. Just Spike."

"And your friend's a witch?" Sam noted Spike's nod and continued. "By witch, what exactly do you mean?"

Spike banged his head against the back of the seat. "Honestly, Sam, this is no time for speculation or interrogation. Let's just get your mate's house before he ends up as that big bad's dinner."

Sam took a breath, driving on. Spike watched her with admiration. This woman could make the little Mustang move, all right. And she seemed to be taking the 'creature of the night' notion rather well. Nevertheless, he felt himself growing a bit antsy waiting for the ride to end.

He reached forward.

"Don't touch my radio," the woman snapped.

Spike leaned back, hands up in surrender. "You know, love, it's not nice to deny a bloke his tunes—especially after shooting him on the first date."

* * *

_Smack!_

"Ouch. . . ." Willow hissed, raising a hand to her forehead to touch the tender spot of reddening skin. "Apparently, not so weak," she muttered, glaring hatefully down at the egg-flipper, the very object that she had been prying beneath Daniel's chair for the last ten minutes. And each time she sent a charge of magic toward the mystical adhesive holding the man down, it backfired. The last time had sent the utensil hurling toward her head.

"Let me have a look," Daniel offered, already leaning down to brush back her red locks. Willow stiffened at his touch but relaxed when she noticed his serious gaze studying her 'wound'. He almost reminded her of a younger version of Giles with that steady, scholarly concentration. "I'm an expert at the typical concussion," he said, breaking her from her thoughts, "and I can proudly say that you look fine, grill lines aside."

"Know anything about mystical concussions?" Willow asked, smiling weakly.

Daniel frowned, gently feeling the spot above her eye. "You might be forming a slight knot. Do you feel dizzy?"

She shook her head. "What about you? Still stuck to the chair?"

The man looked down, gesturing to his backside (a part of him still very much in the seat). "What went wrong?"

"Well. . ." Willow shrugged, reaching up to lift his hand away from the forming sore. "Honestly, I don't know. It doesn't make sense. This shouldn't be so hard—a lifting spell is relatively simple, even with such a primitive conduit . . . Ah!"

Daniel let out a muffled cry as he lurched forward, falling off of the chair.

The witch held back a laugh at her current situation, which did, in fact, involve her being pinned down to the floor with the weight of a man in his underwear upon her. Nope, she thought, raising a brow. She definitively hadn't been in this position in a while. At least not with a guy.

"What just happened?" Daniel groaned, his body limp for a moment as the feeling returned to his backside. He blinked, realizing that he was currently squishing the woman beneath him and talking into the soft skin of her shoulder.

"Dr. Jackson?" Willow coughed, squirming to free her 'more sensitive areas'.

"Oh!" Daniel blushed, rolling off of her. He landed on his back, eyes darting back to the Wicca still lying beside him. "Are you alright?"

Willow winced, nodding as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. "Well," she said, rolling her neck to work out the kinks, "at least you're off the chair."

"Yeah." Daniel knew he should be standing and offering her a hand up but, at the moment, he was relishing the ability to lie down far too much. "So, I guess your magic worked after all."

The witch stared down at him, frustration written across her features. "No. I didn't do that."

Daniel rose on one arm. "Then why did it free me?" he asked slowly.

"Well, I'm not sure. Maybe it wore off." She broke off, frowning nervously. "Or."

"Or what?"

"Or it could have been because it no longer serves a purpose," Willow answered.

Daniel let his shoulders hang, blinking with sudden exhaustion. "I suppose, theoretically, a predator would no longer need a way to keep its prey down if it was already . . ."

"It's here," the witch whispered, grabbing hold of the archeologist's arm as she pulled herself up to her feet, planting herself in front of him.

Before Daniel could question her, he heard the sound of his front door blasting off its hinges.


	5. Chapter 5: It's a Party!

**Disclaimer: I wonder what freak goes around pushing lawsuits on fanfiction writers. Anyhow I'm sure it's not the fine folks who own BtVS, Ats, or SG-1. I'm not one of those fine folks, by the way.**

_**Code Name: Pedestrian**_

**Chapter 5: Cheese, Crackers, and Demons—It's a Party!**

"So, you drink animal blood?"

The vampire rolled his eyes. "Yes, love, as I've said twice. I'm not planning on draining you dry."

"You drink animal because you have a soul." Sam was still trying to wrap her finger around the vampire aspect. So far she had gotten what seemed to be a _very_ summarized version of the vampire species, along with a few obviously censured bits of Spike's history. The scientist in her had several more questions.

"No," Spike snapped. "I don't kill humans anymore—at least, not often. 'Course if they're planning on asking me annoying questions for the rest of my unlife, I might make an exception."

"Sorry."

Sam spared him a glance. Honestly, she didn't see how a dead being could behave this way. While the thought that the "vampire" might be a parasite had occurred to her, she still hadn't figured out how it could . . .

Spike raised a hand, grabbing her attention in one motion. "We've found it."

"What? Can you sense it?" Sam's curiosity peaked at the thought of blood markers.

The vampire smirked. "Actually, it was rather rank, so I can smell it." He pointed off the road. "Plus I just saw it run into that house. Some poor bloke's in for a surprise."

Sam's eyes widened. "That's Daniel's house!"

"Bugger."

* * *

Four hundred pounds of tooth and claw tore through the door frame, splintering wood and appearing out of a cloud of dust and plaster.

Daniel raised a hand over his head, blocking the scrap as he slid to the sofa, snatching up his jacket and digging through his pocket. "Where is it?" he grumbled. His fingers wrapped around metal, and he gave a bitter grin, pulling the zat gun free.

The witch glanced over at him. "I said stay behind me!" she snapped.

Her eyes widened when Daniel aimed at the demon, the serpentine head of his weapon raised. Energy hit the creature in the chest. The charge was still coursing over its horns as a second blast hit it in the shoulder. The demon stood stunned for a moment before releasing a battle cry and raising its talon-tipped hand high.

"That didn't work. . ."

Willow ran to his side, grabbing hold of his arm again and jerking him back before he could fire again. "We need to get out of here!" she shouted.

The demon ran forward, only to bounce off of an invisible barrier, falling back onto the floor. Daniel's jaw dropped, and he turned to see Willow with her free arm raised out before her, as if she was somehow keeping the creature away.

"This won't hold it long. Out the window."

Daniel didn't pause to think, grabbing hold of the window and pushing it up.

"You first," Willow called.

The archeologist slipped out feet first, loosing his footing on the slick grass below. He landed on his stomach, rolling over to look back up. Only a few seconds passed before the glass shattered out, Willow's form flying over him, collapsing onto the ground. Daniel crawled to her side, an arm around her waist to help him pull her up.

"He's not here to sell cookies," she muttered, glancing up at the window.

Hearing a sound from behind, she turned on her heels. A smile of relief crossed her face as she realized that the shadow rounding the corner of the house was not a demon—at least not the demon after her.

"Just getting a book, are we? Suppose you don't need a hand then, Red?"

"Spike!"

* * *

"Spike?"

Andrew, not for the first time, peaked through the bushes where the vampire and demon had disappeared a good fifteen minutes ago. "I'm just going to wait over here," he called, timidly searching the greenery for movement.

When it seemed safe, he stepped out into the open, the stake he'd drawn (the only weapon that Willow had let him take to the park) clutched tightly against his chest. He made his way back to the swing set, biting his lip in frustration. In the _American Andrew/English Dictionary_, the word "wait" is clearly defined as a verb that means to hide for three minutes before becoming bored. In Andrew's mind, he had already waited five times over. Now, he would proceed to wander around until he found trouble or vice versa.

Trouble, in all politeness, met him halfway.

Andrew approached the hole at the center of the playground, bending down to see into its dark depths. "Doesn't look like Hell," he muttered, taking another step closer.

Something metallic glittered from further down, past the mass of roots and soil and shadow. Andrew's brow scrunched, lips parted as he tried to make out what it was buried down there. He took another step forward.

It was in the next second that he realized that there were no more steps to actually take. His right foot hovered over the hole. Waving his arms frantically, he kept his balance a moment longer, right before the gravel beneath his left shoe decided to join the revolt.

"Ouchy. . .Oh. . .Hurt," Andrew breathed, wincing as he rolled over onto his back, having just done a perfect belly flop, minus the pool of water. He looked up at the hole above him, moonlight streaming in from the heavens. "Oh, God, this is just like _The Ring_—Little girl, I promise I'll be your mommy, just don't kill me in a gross way."

His ramblings went unanswered. Andrew pushed himself up, thankful that his surroundings were devoid of slimy water and corpses. After a moment, he realized that he was also rather pleased that there were no demons in sight. The area was surprisingly clean for an underground nest. Actually, it was kind of shiny.

Andrew bent down. The floor—that had been what was reflecting in the light. It was bright silver, dulled slightly by a layer of grime.

"Cool. . ."

And then the lights flickered on.


End file.
